i met a traveller from an antique land

who said two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert

near them

on the sand

half sunk a shattered visage lies

whose frown

and wrinkled lip

and sneer of cold command

tell that its sculptor well those passions read

which yet survive

stamped on these lifeless things

the hand that mocked them

and the heart that fed

and on the pedestal

these words appear: my name is ozymandias

king of kings

look on my works

ye mighty

and despair

nothing beside remains

round the decay of that colossal wreck

boundless and bare

the lone and level sands stretch far away